


Beneath

by DunningKrugerExplainsEverything



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark horror romance, F/F, Invasion of personal space, Proud Elven Warrior tempted by Dark Sorceress, Servant of Evil redeemed by her love for mighty warrior, moderate gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-04-21 04:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14277345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunningKrugerExplainsEverything/pseuds/DunningKrugerExplainsEverything
Summary: And you flatter yourself that you are different. That fate has chosen you. All the blood that she has spilled, all the confidences that she has betrayed, all the poor souls she has ruined, over endless ages of cruelty and malice, and you delude yourself that you are the one to redeem her, that you alone can lead her to the light. Eltariel, you fool. Temptation takes so many different forms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will eventually have a happy ending for both characters.
> 
> If you've never played the game Middle-Earth: Shadow of War, then don't worry - I won't be making many references to it. The important thing to know is that Eltariel is a skilled Elven warrior who has exiled herself from her own people.

Four weeks traveling through Mirkwood, and then Eltariel stumbled across a band of Orcs as wet and hungry and cold and tired and lost and weak as she.

How many of them were there? A dozen, perhaps? More? Quite difficult to make a count, when one is dodging and dashing between trees, leaping out of the way of falling axes and ducking beneath passing blades. They crashed and blundered through the undergrowth towards her, howling and screaming threats and insults at her in their misbegotten, bastard tongues.

“Ah've 'ad it with these _bloody woods!”_ went one, drool falling from the corner of his mouth, mad eyes bulging out of his skull. He stomped through the bushes, a great curved blade hacking wildly at vines and leaves. “Ah've 'ad it with the rain, ah've had it with the mud, ah've had it with the spiders, an' ah've 'ad it with _these facking Elves!_ Come 'ere, you quivering little mouse!”

These Orcs were exhausted, and demoralized. They were _cranky._ They had been trudging through the forest for weeks, and were even more ill-tempered than Orcs could usually be.

Orcs were bred to be miserable – they were born to be angry, and sore, and bitter, and hateful. But travelers be warned: Mirkwood could make an Orc out of the cheeriest, most agreeable Hobbit.

Eltariel's first instinct was to put some distance between herself and her assailants. She sprinted across the grass, and vaulted over a boulder, and then leapt into the air, and swung from an overhanging branch, and all the while the Orcs stomped and lurched after her, shrieking and roaring. Bounding onto a ledge, she turned, and faced her adversaries. Her longbow, 'til now slung across her shoulder, was in an instant in her hand.

Eltariel loosed four arrows. The first found its way into an Orc's eye, the second into an Orc's throat. The next a heart, the one after that a forehead, and then the Orcs were upon her again, slashing and swinging at her with their cleavers and axes. Eltariel reached behind, and drew her two blades, and set to work.

Eltariel sliced through an Orc's arm – the limb fell to the ground, and lay there, hatchet gripped in twitching fingers. Eltariel jumped to the side as an Orc charged at her with a spear – it narrowly missed her, and another Orc was impaled instead. Eltariel spun about, and raised her blade to intercept a blow – she wasn't quite quick enough, and an Orc smashed her in the ribs with a mace.

Eltariel was tired. She was tired, and cold, and hungry, and not as strong as she wished she could be. She had been trekking through these woods for such a long time, almost without stop.

Sometimes, the Elf Eltariel had a habit of neglecting things as bothersome as _sl_ _eep_ and _food_ and _rest._

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _A soldier's grievances always fall upon deaf ears._

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought, as she felt her arms become heavier, the arc of her blades clumsier and less precise.

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought, as her legs became unsteady beneath her, as it became more and more difficult to keep herself standing.

With a scream of exertion, Eltariel struck aside an Orc's sword, and plunged her blade into its chest. Fumbling about at the belt at her waist, she pulled out a dagger, and sent it flying through the trees, bound for an Orc's head. The dagger missed.

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought, as a massive fist smashed into the side of her face and sent her reeling to the side. She could taste blood, filling up her mouth, but an Elf would never spit while in the company of others, even company as vile as this.

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought, as an Orc brought his blade plunging down the length of her leg, flesh carving open from her thigh to her calf. Eltariel let out an anguished cry, and tried to stagger away, blood splattering among the grass and muck.

 _None care when the soldier grows weary,_ Eltariel thought, as a great pain suddenly flared in her back. She craned about, and gazed in horror at the quarrel now jutting out of her. Two dozen paces away, an Orc lowered his bow, and smiled.

Eltariel realized that she was going to die – she was going to die here, this day, this moment, among these trees.

 _What tally did I manage?_ she wondered. _Six? Seven? Eight? Not a bad account to give of oneself._

“Watch this, lads! I'll 'ave both her arms and 'ead off 'fore she hits the ground! Watch this!”

With a deafening bellow, an Orc lumbered at her, cleaver raised. Snatching up every spark of strength left in her body, Eltariel gripped the hilts of both her blades, and brought them about in a desperate slash. Her balance was gone, and the momentum of the swing sent Eltariel crashing inelegantly to the ground. She let out a hoarse groan, and began scrabbling about in the filth, struggling to get back to her feet.

There was a loud _thump,_ and the Orc collapsed onto the ground next to her. Its foul blood bubbled and slopped into the soil of the forest, a gory slash across its throat. The Orc convulsed a few times, and then was still.

Eltariel lay on the ground for a few moments, greedily sucking in air. She stared at the fallen Orc...and then a dark merriment blazed to life in her eyes, and her mouth widened into a wicked, vicious grin.

There was blood in the gaps between her teeth. It was caked all around her mouth.

 _At least I got one more,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _One must savour the small victories._

Eltariel fought no more. She collapsed backwards onto the grass with a sigh, and closed her eyes shut. She didn't see the dark shapes gathering around her, looming over her. She didn't see when one of the Orcs raised his weapon, and brought it down.

 

()()()()()()()()

 

The Orcs perished, then.

The Orcs perished, and their corpses were left in the grasses. Before long, their flesh came to be crawling with maggots, and spiders, and mice, and flies – soon, there was naught left but bones. The vines and tendrils of the forest slithered over all, and this band of Orc marauders would lie undiscovered and undisturbed for centuries to come.

 

()()()()()()()()()()

 

A figure made its way through the forest.

A long, black cloak, that fell all the way to the ground. A heavy black hood, that allowed not a glimpse of the face. In both hands, the figure held the handles of a small wooden cart that it pulled along behind it. Within the cart, there was some sort of shape, but it was covered over with a brown canvas.

The figure drifted through the woods, the cart trundling behind. It was late in the afternoon. If, by chance, some unseen spy happened to be hiding in the trees at that moment, and was watching from the shadows, they may perhaps have noticed that this mysterious figure seemed to be avoiding the light of the sun as much as possible. The black-cloaked figure kept where the trees were thickest, where the rays of the sun could not penetrate.

On and on, through the woods. Gradually, the colours of the forest changed...from greens and browns and yellows, to greys and blacks and silvers.

 

()()()()()()()()()()

 

Spiderwebs. This region of the forest was infested with spiderwebs. Webs between branches. Webs between trees. High above, cocoons of silk hung in the air, dreadfully still. What did they contain? Some were as large as deer, some large as wolves...some, large as Elves, or Men.

Still the black-clad figure pressed on, the cart bouncing and shuddering over the earth. As the figure moved, more and more strands of web came to stick to its cloak. The white silk floating behind gave it much the appearance of a ghostly wraith.

When the spiders came, they were deathly quiet. They floated down from the darkness, and alighted noiselessly on the forest floor, and gazed at their prey. The Spiders of Mirkwood, black and hairy and glistening and huge, their eyes glowing a terrible red.

Their bellies were _maddeningly_ empty.

“ _What is it, what is it, what is it, what is it?”_ said one, in its terrible, clicking, clacking, slurping speech.

“ _An Elf,”_ said another.

“ _A Man,”_ said another.

“ _An Orc,”_ said another.

The black-clad figure did not seem to notice them. It trudged through the trees, cart gripped in its hands.

Globs of poison dripped from the spiders' fangs. One bite, and this prey would be at their mercy, paralyzed and helpless.

“ _Morsels, morsels, morsels, morsels, morsels...”_

Ravenous, the spiders bolted towards the figure. There was a grotesque _pitter-patter_ as they rushed towards their prey...

...and then, suddenly, each spider was filled with an ancient, irresistible _terror._ They stood frozen, peering in horror at the figure for a moment, and then they fled, scrambling up trees, and bounding into shadows.

The black-cloaked figure pushed on through the woods. In the darkness, burning red eyes watched in fear.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

There were a great many fortifications in the Mirkwood. The Dark Lord had built many of them. The Dark Lord had _abandoned_ many of them.

Somewhere, deep within the woods, a watchtower stood upon a cliff, the forest stretching for miles and miles beneath it. The tower was a crude, unsightly thing, the sort of coarse, artless construction that could only be wrought by Orcish brutes.

The tower had long fallen into ruin. The Orcs had deserted it centuries ago. There were none that remembered whatever name it might have once had – few knew that it even existed any more. At most, a few references to the place might have survived on some forgotten map in some archive somewhere in Mordor.

After night had fallen, the black-clad figure pulled its cart up to the entrance of the tower. It reached up a hand, and pushed its hood back.

It was a woman. Long, black hair. Pale skin. She was an Elf...

...no. No, she was not an Elf.

Her right ear was pointed, as was the case with all Elves...

...but her left ear was short and round, as though she were of the race of Men.

A long, continuous wound ran its way down the entirety of her face. It passed down her forehead, down the left side of her nose, narrowly avoided her mouth, and then continued down her chin, down her throat, into the shadows of her robes.

The wound was held shut by black stitches.

Thuringwethil stood still for a moment, and peered up at the tower. The place was shrouded in white mists. The masonry was crumbling, ivy climbing up the walls, vines twisting around the stones.

Thuringwethil was a woman given to fancies and whimsies. Standing now in the shadow of the ruins, she could imagine a presence, somewhere in the windows, spying upon her. She could imagine shapes in the dark, waiting for her.

She shook her head, and banished the thoughts from her mind. The tower was empty. No Orcs, no _Nazgûl_. Dol Goldur was some eighty leagues to the south-west. No one knew that she had made her home in this place. No one could know.

Thuringwethil tightened her grip on her cart, and went inside.

 

()()()()()()()()()()

 

Underneath the watchtower, there was a stone chamber that Thuringwethil used as her lair. Lamps and lanterns were lit, and shadows were sent dancing and gliding across the walls.

Thuringwethil pulled the brown canvas away from the cart. Within the cart, there was sprawled an Elven woman. She was dead.

As soon as she had the opportunity, Thuringwethil had placed a phial at the dead woman's lips, and forced a pungent black liquid down her throat. An alchemical potion that Thuringwethil had concocted herself in her workshop, its purpose was to disrupt and impede the decomposition of corpses.

Thuringwethil had a need for cadavers in the best possible condition.

Reaching into the cart, Thuringwethil lifted the dead Elf woman up in her arms, and lay her gently upon a table. She examined her closely.

“Oh, thou art _wondrous_ fair _,_ my Lady,” Thuringwethil whispered. “It would please me greatly to gaze upon your face every time I peer into the mirror.”

The Elf woman had long, golden hair – it reached far past the waist, though she had bound it into a single, orderly length. After the battle with the Orcs, the hair was riddled with muck, blades of grass here and there.

Her lip was swollen – one of the Orcs had struck her in the mouth. “Matters not,” Thuringwethil said, fingers dancing over the injured area. “I can easily mend such blemishes.”

Thuringwethil began investigating the Elf woman's effects. “It seems you hail from...Lothlórien, if I'm not mistaken,” she remarked. “You strayed far indeed from home, my Lady.”

The Elf woman wore greaves, pauldrons, vambraces – armour beautifully crafted by the most skilled smiths in Lórien. They were of exquisite quality, and they were decorated with painstakingly-rendered Elven engravings...however...

Thuringwethil's brow furrowed in confusion.

The armour was in quite a poor state of repair. It was covered all over in dents and scratches. The colours of the engravings had faded. The pieces were smeared with dirt and grime.

“Odd,” Thuringwethil said, gazing at the silent woman with a questioning expression. “Not at all like an Elf to allow her equipment to fall into such a dismal state.”

Thuringwethil stood, and stared at the Elf's face for a few moments. “Hmmm,” she said. “Could it be that you had not returned to Lothlórien for a very long time?” She dwelt upon this thought. “Were you an _exile,_ perhaps? I wonder what could lead the Elves to banish one of their own...”

For a brief while, Thuringwethil looked upon the Elf woman, inventing stories in her head. Then she shrugged. “You're dead, anyway,” she said, and carried on with her investigations.

Thuringwethil rummaged about the Elf's clothes. In a pocket in her tunic, she discovered a small, purple pouch. She undid the string, and upended the pouch, and a small object fell into her palm.

It was a crystal phial. Elegantly shaped. It seemed to be filled with...water?

Thuringwethil held the phial, peering at it curiously. “Should I try a sip?” she wondered.

And then the phial exploded into light.

“ _Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhh!”_ Thuringwethil shrieked.

Every single inch of darkness in the chamber was banished in an instant. Thuringwethil felt as though daggers had been driven into her eyes. She felt as though her skull was about to explode – she swore she could feel cracks spreading across the bone. She staggered backwards, and dropped the phial on the floor, and there it lay, and there it _blazed,_ filling every crack and every corner of the chamber with its radiant brilliance.

“Rrraaaggh, you _tricked_ me!” she snarled.

Floundering about with her arm covering her eyes, Thuringwethil leapt clumsily into the air. She seized hold of a thick drape, and tore it down from the ceiling. She cast it over the phial, and, mercifully, the chamber became dark again.

Thuringwethil was breathing uncontrollably, now. Her head was throbbing and pounding. The afterimage of that terrible light was still seered into her eyes, tormenting her. Her expression was demonic, her teeth sharp and bared. She was clawing at the air, imagining herself disemboweling some poor fool.

Thuringwethil turned, and glared at the Elf woman lying on the table. “Part of me knows that I should simply forgive you, and make use of your skin,” she hissed. _“Every other speck of me demands that I take an axe and hack you into pieces, you wretched Cattle-thing!”_

No. That wouldn't do. Thuringwethil bowed her head, and slumped her shoulders, and forced herself to calm. The fury faded from her eyes, and her breathing steadied.

She resumed her examination of the Elf woman. The drape remained on the floor, though Thuringwethil would never forget that that cursed phial was hidden underneath it.

There was an enormous black and purple bruise around the Elf woman's ribs. Thuringwethil gave a rueful hiss when she gazed upon the damage. “That will take some work to mend,” she muttered. She shot the Elf woman a resentful look. “I do wish you Elves wouldn't bruise so easily...”

There was a ragged wound in the Elf's back, just below her left shoulder blade. An Orc had shot an arrow into her. Thuringwethil had pulled the arrow out.

Thuringwethil gave an aggrieved, long-suffering _harrumph_. “You know, you could have _easily_ dodged that,” she said to the corpse, pointing at the arrow wound. “Is it not the case that Elves are spry, and fleet of foot? You could easily have jumped out of the way of an _arrow._ But you didn't, and now I have to wear your damaged skin. I suppose I could just stitch it shut. Perhaps, if I found another patch of good skin, I could cut the entire area out, and replace it...”

The Elf woman's right leg was horribly damaged. A long, gruesome wound stretched from her thigh to her calf. In many places, bone had been struck.

Thuringwethil let out a moan. “That skin is almost useless,” she lamented. “I suppose...I suppose I could keep the skin that I'm wearing on my leg now, for a few more weeks, perhaps.” She was silent a moment, and then she raised her nostrils, and sniffed the air. She grimaced. “I'm starting to reek, a little. Perfume can only do so much, regretfully.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

There was work to be done.

The Elf woman was laid out on a stone slab. On a table next to the slab, Thuringwethil had arranged an assortment of instruments. Blades. Saws. Clamps. Next to the table, there stood a grindstone.

Thuringwethil raised two blades to the light. She ran their edges along each other, and delighted in the noise, in the flying of sparks. She looked down at the Elf woman, a twistedly fond expression on her face.

“In life, did your people speak of what a radiant smile you had?” she cooed. “Your smile will be all the more splendid when your skin rests upon these bones, my Lady.”

Thuringwethil reached towards the Elf woman with her blade.

And then the Elf woman coughed.

A very slight cough. Not very loud at all. Very easy to miss. Thuringwethil froze, her eyes wide. Her blade was hovering an inch from the Elf woman's flesh.

Nothing happened, for a moment. Thuringwethil cocked her head.

Then, from the Elf woman's mouth, there came the weakest, the _softest_ of breaths.

Thuringwethil peered in amazement at the Elf woman. Then, with her free hand, she reached forward, and placed her fingertips upon her chest.

Eltariel's heart gave a faint _thump._

“Oh,” Thuringwethil said. “You are alive.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for invasion of personal space. 
> 
> There will be absolutely no rape or sexual assault in this story. However...in this chapter, Thuringwethil does not really understand the concept of 'Me Space'.

Somewhere in Mirkwood, there was a tiny farm.

It was a terribly lonely place – if you stood in this farm, and started walking in any direction, it could be months and months before you encountered another soul. However, the man that lived here, the farmer: he was a recluse, and he liked the peace and quiet.

The farm was very small – a cottage, and a modest field at the side. There were a few chickens, kept in a coop. There were bees, kept in hives. There was some cattle, too – a steer, a cow, a heifer, and two calves.

The cattle lived in the field next to the cottage. When night came, four of the cattle would lie down on the grass, and go to sleep, while the fifth would stand awake, and keep watch. The cattle were nervous beasts, and it comforted them to know that they were being protected while they slept.

Night fell, as it always did. Four of the cattle settled down to sleep, while the cow remained standing. The forest became entirely dark, and there was nothing to see but the stars shining in the heavens, nothing to hear but the rustling of leaves and the howling of the wind. The cattle lay sprawled across the grasses, while the cow stood in its spot, and it never moved, and it never made a sound.

In the darkness, two hands reached out.

Two hands reached out, and snatched hold of the cow's udders. The beast did not react – it did not startle, or cry out, or kick with its hooves. It simply stood in place, and did nothing. Its eyes were black and empty, and the other cattle were all draped across the grasses, unknowing and oblivious.

The hands tightened on the udders, and milk sprayed out. Now came the sound of liquid striking metal – the dark figure had placed a bucket beneath the cow, to collect its milk. Left and right, left and right, the hands worked in the pitch blackness, the milk filling the bucket, up and up.

With a sudden bellow, the farmer sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide in shock, his skin glazed with sweat. After a moment, he realized that he had not been woken by a nightmare. He knew, with the utmost certainty, that there was an _intruder_ on his farm. There was a _trespasser_ on his land. Someone was interfering with his property. Someone was tampering with his stock.

The farmer burst out the door of his cottage. In his left hand, there was a lantern, burning brightly – in the right, there was the axe that he used to chop wood. He charged into the field, lantern held before him. “Get orf moi laand!” he said, his voice the distorted bark of a man who deals seldom with other living things.

The farmer juddered to a halt, and his eyes bulged out of his skull. He stood there, paralyzed with fear, the red light from his fire cast over everything in front of him.

His cattle were scattered on the grass, motionless. In the centre of the field, the cow stood, rigid and silent. At the cow's feet, a woman was knelt, pulling at its udders.

The woman had no skin.

Trembling, whimpering, his teeth clenched in fright, the farmer held his lantern forward so that he could see a little more clearly. The woman had been flayed from head to toe. He could see the muscles on her arms and legs. He could see the bones – ribs, and spine, and skull.

She had her back to him. Thuringwethil turned around, and peered up at the farmer. She still gripped the cow in her fingers – her blood was smeared across the udders.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she said, her words twisted and warped, given that she had no lips. “There is a helpless child that needs feeding.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

The sun was beginning to rise when Thuringwethil returned to the watchtower.

With an exhausted sigh, she pulled her skin on again. Legs, and torso, and arms, and head. She stood opposite a mirror, and made sure she was perfect. A little pushing here. A little pulling there. Lick lips to wet them.

She stared at her reflection, for a moment. The rot was becoming more and more visible. The colour had all but faded from the flesh. There was only so much that waxes and ointments, and kohl and powder, and glamours and enchantments could do.

Thuringwethil turned from the mirror, and focused her attention on the corner of the chamber.

On the bed, Eltariel lay, entirely still. There were pillows beneath her head, and a blanket over her body.

Thuringwethil swept across the chamber, and loomed over her motionless guest. She reached forward, and placed her hand just over Eltariel's mouth.

Thuringwethil felt a gentle breath on her palm.

“Well,” she said. “At least you did not die while I was away.”

Thuringwethil rested her hand on Eltariel's forehead, and then she gave a disapproving growl. “Your skin is becoming unnaturally hot,” she remarked. “Ugh. You're going to develop a horrible fever, aren't you? I suppose I'll have to make sure you don't get burnt to ash by your own flesh, won't I?”

Next, Thuringwethil pulled aside the blanket, and began examining the dressings that she had applied to Eltariel's wounds. A bandage over the arrow wound in her back. A bandage over the spear wound in her chest. Bandages all the way down her right leg.

The dressings were stained dark-red. “Those bandages need to be changed already,” Thuringwethil said, dramatically rolling her eyes. “You _are_ a demanding guest, aren't you?”

Thuringwethil gave an irritated _tsk,_ and then set to work. All the soiled dressings were cut away. She covered Eltariel's wounds with a poultice that chased away diseases and infections, and then wrapped them with fresh bandages. Thuringwethil was far from the most skilled healer that had ever existed in Middle-Earth, but she possessed some rudimentary knowledge.

When the work was done, Eltariel lay peacefully in the bed. Thuringwethil pulled the blanket over her comatose form.

“I can't let you starve, either,” Thuringwethil said, peering at the Elf woman. “You're going to need your strength, my Lady.”

The bucket of milk that Thuringwethil had stolen was set on the floor of the chamber. Thuringwethil grabbed a brass goblet from a shelf, and then dipped it into the bucket, filling it up to the brim.

Thuringwethil placed the goblet to her lips, and began to pour the milk into her mouth. She could feel it swilling about her tongue, her teeth, the insides of her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed darkly – milk was _revolting,_ full of flesh and fat. There was only one type of nourishment that Thuringwethil enjoyed.

When she was done, Thuringwethil took the goblet from her mouth, and placed it on a nearby table. She kept her lips tightly shut. She did not swallow the milk. Instead, she turned, and looked down at the Elf woman lying quietly in the corner.

Thuringwethil sat at the side of the bed. Running her arm underneath Eltariel's shoulders, she began to raise the Elf woman upwards. Eltariel's head fell back as she moved. With her free hand, Thuringwethil took hold of Eltariel's head, and prevented it from moving. She drew the Elf close, and turned her face towards her.

Leaning forward, Thuringwethil placed her mouth against Eltariel. Gently, she pushed her lips apart, and a trickle of milk flowed into her mouth, and streamed down her throat.

Briefly, a gap opened between Thuringwethil and Eltariel's lips. A thin vein of milk ran its way down Eltariel's cheek.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

The fever came, as Thuringwethil knew it would.

Eltariel lay in the bed, shivering and trembling. Her breath came in hitches and gulps, and she thrashed and tossed about as a delirium rose to take her. Thuringwethil marveled at how _slight and small_ the Elf seemed, then, how little space she seemed to occupy in the world. She was so sure and strong when she was waging battle against the band of Orcs, only now to appear so frail and fragile.

In all the years that they would know each other, Thuringwethil would never see Eltariel so helpless and vulnerable as she did those few days in the watchtower in Mirkwood. She dipped a cloth in a pail of water, and pressed it against hot skin, and Eltariel's face, taut and strained, softened ever so slightly.

Five days after Thuringwethil brought Eltariel to her tower on the cliff-top, the pair had their first conversation.

It was late at night. A flickering candle in hand to light the way, Thuringwethil descended the stairs, and entered the chamber to find Eltariel sitting up in bed, blanket clutched tight to her chest. She was looking about in confusion and bewilderment, her breathing rapid and panicked, her shoulders rising and falling.

“The...the Nazgul!” she cried, her voice cracked and gravelly. “The Nazgul are outside!”

Thuringwethil drifted across the chamber towards Eltariel's bed. She set the candle down on a cabinet as she went. “What troubles you, my Lady?” she said.

“The Nazgul!” Eltariel's words hurried out in a frantic tumble – she spoke as people often did when in the grip of night terrors. Her face was pale and sickly and smeared with sweat, her eyes laden with years of anguish and turmoil. She tried to wrap the blanket around herself, tried to climb out of bed. “Oh...oh, Eru, they've found me! I can see them in the trees, in the shadows! They're just standing there, waiting. I...I have to get away from this place! I have to get away from here!”

 _The Nazgul._ Clearly, the Elf was being tormented by hallucinations and phantasms. In her nightmares, the Dark Riders were chasing her.

Thuringwethil started murmuring in a language Eltariel did not understand. She did not recognize the words, but there was something in the stranger's voice that _soothed_ her, something that caused her heart to calm, something that caused her blood to settle.

Thuringwethil sat on the side of the bed, next to Eltariel. On Eltariel's shoulders, she placed soft hands, and then she began gently pushing Eltariel back down onto the bed.

“There are no Nazgul in this forest,” Thuringwethil said, her words firm and reassuring. “The Nine are far, far away. You have nothing to fear from them. They will never find you. They will never find you.”

Eltariel tried to resist, tried to stay upright, but she was far too weak. She collapsed back onto the mattress. “No, no, you don't understand!” she cried. “They know I'm here! They know I'm here!”

Thuringwethil's voice was as a rock in a tempest. “They will never find you,” she said. “They will never find you, so sleep as deeply as you please.”

Thuringwethil reached down towards something at the foot of the bed. Eltariel could hear the sound of water dripping, of water being wrung from a rag...and then something cold was laid against her forehead.

Eltariel gasped, and then she let out a shaking sigh. She stopped resisting, and sank back onto the sheets.

Thuringwethil ran a damp cloth across Eltariel's hot skin. Her cheeks. Her neck. Her muscled arms. As she worked, the frightful images of the Nazgul grew less and less vivid in Eltariel's mind. Eltariel began to breathe more calmly. Her expression became more peaceful.

“Your wounds must heal,” Thuringwethil whispered, as she ran her cloth across Eltariel's leg. “If you fuss overmuch, you'll worsen your injuries.”

Eltariel muttered distantly in agreement.

Thuringwethil's eyes flicked towards the Elf's face. “What is your name, my Lady?” she said.

Of course, had Eltariel been of sound mind, she would have given a false name. Alas, Eltariel was in the grip of phantoms and apparitions.

“ _Eltariel,”_ Thuringwethil said, turning the word over and around in her mouth. “You may call me Maera, Eltariel.”

Eltariel did not reply. The Elf had fainted, and drifted back into sleep.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Eltariel woke, and groaned into her pillow.

There was no strength in her arms. No strength in her back. No strength in her legs. _Gondolin burn to the dust, I've never felt so spent and weak in my life,_ she thought.

Eltariel forced herself to sit up in bed, groaning at how stiff her bones had become. She peered around the chamber. Some distance away, a single candle burned, throwing a dim orange light upon the walls and clutter.

“Maera?” she called out, her voice thick with phlegm and neglect.

No reply. The place was empty, it seemed. She was alone.

Eltariel dragged herself out of the bed, and then cried out in pain when the slightest weight was placed upon her right leg. Gasping and growling, Eltariel staggered across the chamber to where the candle was burning. Fumbling about in the gloom, Eltariel found more candles, and began to light them.

The chamber grew brighter. Eltariel saw that she her right leg was covered with bandages.

_I'm going to have a limp in that leg for the rest of my life, aren't I?_

Eltariel looked around the chamber...ah! In a corner, Maera had arranged all of her effects. Her clothes, and her armour, and her blades, and her bow.

Suddenly seized by anxiety, Eltariel shambled over to her pile of belongings, and began desperately searching through them. She rifled through pockets. She tossed aside things that she did not want. _Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?_

At last, Eltariel reached into a fold, and gave a relieved sigh. She held in her hand a small purple pouch. Pulling the strings apart, she pulled out the crystal phial, and held it close. “Thank you,” she whispered to the shadows.

Eltariel was still for a moment, and then she pressed a kiss against the crystal phial. She placed it back in its pouch, and then returned it to her bundle of effects.

Eltariel looked about the rest of the chamber. In a chair, Maera had thrown one of her long, flowing robes. It was black, with red lining. Eltariel pulled the robe over herself, and then set about exploring the place.

What time was it? Morning? Afternoon? The dead of night? Eltariel could tell that she was deep underground – it was impossible to say. She took a candle so that she could see in the dark, and then she opened a door at the end of the chamber, and stepped through.

Eltariel found herself walking down a long passageway. She limped very noticeably, and her progress was quite slow. By the light of her fire, she could see that the stones of the passage were curled round with creepers and vines. At one point in the corridor, the roots of a tree had broken through the ceiling.

“Maera?” Eltariel called out, again. Again, no reply.

What did Eltariel know about her saviour? Little. She was a hermit of some sort. She had a vaguely _disreputable_ air about her, though that bothered Eltariel little. Eltariel was well-accustomed to dealing with _disreputable_ sorts.

As she walked down the passage, Eltariel winced at the pain in her leg. _It will be a while before I can safely move on from this place,_ she thought to herself. _I will not be a burden upon my host, however. I can earn my keep, here. I can chop wood. I can fetch water. I can even teach her how to more efficiently hunt for food, if she lacks such knowledge._

Eltariel turned round a corner, and then she saw that the passage ended at a door. Beneath the door, there spilled orange firelight.

“Maera?” Eltariel called out. Yet again, no reply.

Eltariel should have sensed danger as she approached the door. She should have smelled blood, at the very least. In truth, however, her senses had been greatly dulled by her sickness, and convalescence, and so she noticed nothing amiss at all.

Eltariel rapped her knuckles on the door, once. There came no response. Eltariel placed her hand against the wood, and pushed.

The door swung open. Beyond, there was a wide, round chamber, the walls lined with burning torches. At the centre of the chamber, there was a large stone slab. Upon the slab, there lay a person. A woman.

Dark arts had been worked upon this woman. Profane, pitiless, unspeakable, unforgivable arts.

Eltariel stood in the doorway, and gawped in astonishment at what she had discovered.

Over the poor woman on the slab, a figure hunched. In its right hand, the figure held a blade – in its left, some sort of measuring instrument.

The figure raised its head, and looked at Eltariel.

It had no skin. Eltariel could see its eyes, hovering in its sockets. Eltariel could see its teeth, standing upon its gums. She could see the muscles and bone, all lent an angry glow by the flames on the walls.

For a few long, agonizing seconds, Eltariel and the skinless woman stood, and stared at each other.

“Eltariel,” Thuringwethil said. “I see you're feeling better.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

“ _Hold!”_ Thuringwethil screamed, a spray of spit squirting out of her lip-less mouth as she went. _“Eltariel, hold!”_

Eltariel was already gone. She had stood and gazed in horror at the grotesque tableau for a brief few seconds, and then she spun on her heels and made flight, dashing down the passage beyond.

 _My weapons,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _My blades. My bow. The fountain water._

_I must arm myself. Nothing else matters. Nothing else matters._

Eltariel shambled down the passage as quickly as she possibly could, prayers and entreaties tumbling from her lips, that she might run just a little quicker still. She knew that all of her strength had fled from her body. She knew that her wounds had left her weak and sluggish. Every time she placed her weight upon her right leg, she swore she could feel the stitches pulling and straining, swore she could feel them snapping and breaking, the wounds tearing open.

 _A demon dwells here,_ Eltariel thought to herself, a sickness roiling in her belly. _A demon dwells here, in Mirkwood. She...she preys on the fools who lose their way in the forest. Fools like me. Fools like me..._

Eltariel reached the twist in the passage. She could see the door to the chamber ahead. If she could just reach her weapons...if she could just feel those blades in her hands...

 _No one will know that I perished here,_ Eltariel thought. _No one will ever find my remains. That...that monster...she will seize me, and lay me upon that cold, stone slab, and then her knives will carve through my flesh, and no one will ever know..._

Eltariel staggered through the door, crying at each jolt of pain that leapt from her leg. A dozen paces away, her possessions lay in a pile. Her armour. Her weapons.

 _My blades,_ Eltariel thought to herself, as she stumbled across the chamber. _My blades. My blades. My blades. My blades._

Eltariel screamed as a great weight slammed into her from behind. She was dragged to the ground, and then legs went kicking and thrashing, and arms went twisting and swinging, and hair mingled with dirt, and fingernails scratched against stone, and then Eltariel felt a sharp pain in the side of her neck, and everything fell to darkness.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Eltariel gasped, and sat bolt upright.

Back, once again, in the chamber beneath the earth. Candles flickering, and shadows crawling across the stones. No sounds at all, except for her own panicked breathing.

Eltariel was sitting in a large, luxurious armchair. She had not been restrained in any way – her arms were not bound with ropes, and there were no shackles on her wrists or ankles.

She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, wincing. _Nary a speck of strength in my limbs,_ she thought. _I've never felt so weak..._

“Forgive me. Next time, I shall be sure the latch is fast.”

Eltariel let out a cry, and instinctively snatched the back of the chair with both hands, a pathetic shield against whatever horrors were lurking in the gloom. Eyes bulging, she peered into the darkness of the chamber.

There came the sound of footsteps, and then a figure melted out of the shadows.

A woman. An Elf. Slender, with fine features. Long, black hair. Pale, grey skin, lent a reddish glow by the candlelight. An aged, velvet cloak. Rings of kohl around her eyes. Her lips stained a faint violet.

“How do you feel, Eltariel?” Thuringwethil spoke in an accent that, in spite of all the years she had spent traveling, in spite of all the countless lands and cultures she had visited, Eltariel could not place. Her voice was rich and refined, with more than a hint of wanton _decadence._ “You were grievously wounded...I scarcely believed you would survive at all...”

Crouching behind the chair, Eltariel stared warily at the strange figure.

 _That face,_ she thought. _I saw that face, not long ago..._

The images came racing back. The stone slab. The blades. The instruments.

The Elf woman, lying dead on the stone, her flesh profaned and defiled...

A wave of nausea swept through Eltariel, and her entire body began to shake. “You, you...oh, you _monster!”_ she rasped, her voice unsteady.

Thuringwethil seemed to find amusement in this. _“Monster?”_ she said, with an indulgent chuckle.

“You...you butchered that woman, and now you _wear her skin!”_ Eltariel cried, a trembling finger pointed. “Y-you're a _fiend!”_

The dark merriment drained from Thuringwethil's expression, then, and she stared intently at Eltariel. A few moments went by in silence.

“The Elf maiden, to whom this flesh once belonged?” Thuringwethil said, gesturing to her own face. “She did not die by my hand. I found her, some twelve leagues north of this tower. She was sat by a stream, washing her hair. She was singing a beautiful song, filling the trees with wondrous music...and she did not notice that an Orc was swimming through the water towards her, hiding itself in the murk. The brutish thing sprang out of the water, and cut her throat.”

With a theatrical flourish, Thuringwethil allowed her head to fall back. In the dim light, Eltariel could see a cruel wound on her neck, held shut by black stitches.

“The Orc had every intention of further befouling the Elf maiden's corpse,” Thuringwethil said, and here she gave a grim smile. “But I did not let him. I emerged from the dark, and I struck him down. Then...I claimed the Elf maiden's flesh for myself.” She raised her arms. “And here we are.”

_Here we are._

Eltariel stared at Thuringwethil, a frown of disgust on her face. “You desecrated the remains of a dead woman,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “You couldn't even allow her her dignity in death!”

There came something _haughty_ and _imperious_ over Thuringwethil's expression, then. She stared at Eltariel down the length of her nose. “I put a carcass to its best possible use,” she said, pointedly. “I suppose you would have rather she rotted away in the open air?”

There was steel, then, in Eltariel's eyes. “The maggots and rats are far more deserving of her flesh than _you_ are, _witch!”_

Thuringwethil lips curled into an angry snarl...but then she realized that she couldn't hold onto her anger for long. She smiled, instead. _This weak little lamb...cut to pieces by Orcs, and now she is trading barbs with a demon..._

Thuringwethil placed her hands behind her back, and began wandering idly across the chamber. “I saved your life, you know,” she said, not looking at Eltariel directly. “Do you recall how you came to be here?”

Eltariel did not answer. She simply glared at her host.

Thuringwethil strolled over to a shelf, and peered at the books arranged upon it. “You were set upon by a horde of Orcs,” she said. “You fought well, but they overwhelmed you with their numbers...”

Eltariel's eyes darted around the gloom of the chamber. There was no sign of her belongings. Her blades. Her armour. The vial.

Thuringwethil made her way over to a table, and glided a fingertip over the wooden surface. “One of them brained you with his club, and you fell limp,” she said. “They were going to chop you up into little pieces, and roast you over their fire. But I..I did not allow them.”

Thuringwethil turned, and looked straight at Eltariel. When next she spoke, there was a horrible, indecent _hunger_ in her voice.

“I came from the shadows, black and terrible, and I slew them all,” she said. “I slew them all, and then I put you in my cart, and brought you all the way here, to this place. My domain.”

 _My domain,_ spoken with a desultory air, as though Thuringwethil knew well how wretched and pitiful her present existence was.

Eltariel's mouth twisted with distaste. “You intended me to be your next _skin suit,”_ she said. “You...you were going to _peel the skin from my corpse, and...wear me.”_

Thuringwethil gave a wide smile, and nodded. _Yes. Yes, I was._

“I thought myself so _fortunate_ when I found you,” she said. “You were so _beautiful!_ I could barely contain myself. All I wanted was to stand before a mirror, and gaze upon your face.” Thuringwethil's eyes glazed over, as her mind wandered. “I would have had to have made some _alterations_ , of course. Your hair is a wonderful, lustrous gold...but my hair has always been the darkest black, so I would have had to use dyes...also, I have always had the palest skin, so I would have had need of much powder...”

Thuringwethil floated in her reveries for a few moments...and then she blinked, and looked at Eltariel.

Eltariel was staring at her with wide, horrified eyes.

“Ahem.” Thuringwethil cleared her throat, and then she gave a shrug.

Thuringwethil went on. “However...it soon became apparent that you were not, in fact, dead.” She gave something like an admiring smile. “You are quite strong, aren't you, Eltariel? You have a soul of the most _tempered_ steel. Those Orc savages left you gravely injured, and yet...you endure.”

_Yes. I endure._

Eltariel released her grasp on the chair, and straightened herself. She was feeling light-headed. Slightly dizzy. She was tired, and aching. She could not rely on her right leg to keep her upright.

“Why did you help me?” she said, quietly.

Thuringwethil gave a non-committal murmur. “No reason in particular,” she said. “It was in my power to assist you, and so I lent you my assistance.”

Eltariel gave Thuringwethil a dubious look. She let the silence linger. Then...

“So...I am no prisoner, here?”

Thuringwethil's face became impassive.

“Of course not,” she said. “I am not your captor.”

Eltariel nodded. “Then I am free to leave whenever I wish?” she said.

Thuringwethil was silent, briefly...and then she gave a soft laugh. “You are no fool, Eltariel,” she said. “You know well what will become of you if you venture into the Mirkwood in your present state.” Her hands were outstretched now, reaching slightly towards Eltariel. “You almost _perished,_ my Lady. You need rest. You need to regain your strength.”

There was a silent _challenge,_ now, in Eltariel's eyes. Her voice was low, and yet there was an undeniable sliver of ice in the way she spoke.

“When a lion captures a young doe, it does not necessarily devour it at once,” she said. “Sometimes, it keeps the little thing alive. It waits a few hours, and then, when it is hungry, it gobbles it up.”

Thuringwethil gave a slight sigh, as though she could tell where Eltariel was leading.

“Do you wish to keep me _fresh,_ sorceress?” Eltariel said, her voice even. “You're wearing a new suit of skin, now, but eventually, it will rot and putrefy, won't it? It may take a few weeks – a few months, even – but in time, the skin will go _bad,_ and you will wish for a _replacement.”_ Eltariel flashed a grim smile.  “What will happen then, I wonder?”

Thuringwethil looked directly into Eltariel's eyes. “When this flesh becomes rotten,” Thuringwethil said, “I will find another.”

Eltariel inclined her head. _Oh? Whatever will that entail?_

Thuringwethil went on. “You cannot fail to have noticed, Eltariel, but there is no shortage of death in this land, these days,” she said. She bent her head, a haunted look now upon her face. “Mordor is beginning to stir, its wretched industries crawling back to life. The Orcs more and more brazenly tromp across the lands of both Elf and Man. There is no shortage of dead women to be found in Middle-Earth.”

Thuringwethil began to pace back and forth in front of Eltariel. “Once, I happened across a village on the banks of the Anduin,” she said. “The Orcs had burnt it to ashes, and slaughtered all who dwelt within. Among the ruins, I found a young maiden with a quarrel through her heart. I took her, and wore her face for months. Another time, I found a girl hanging from a gallows, her corpse swinging in the wind and rain. The mayor of the nearby town had become corrupt and deranged, and had taken to hanging his enemies. I cut her down, and claimed her flesh for my own.”

Thuringwethil stood, and sought Eltariel's gaze. “I am no murderer of women,” she said, gently. “I am merely a scavenger, circling in the skies.”

 _She looks so lonely,_ Eltariel thought, then.

Eltariel hovered in place, as the seconds passed by. Then, she slowly lowered herself onto the chair, and allowed herself to sit. She looked askance at Thuringwethil.

“You mean me no harm?” she said.

Thuringwethil shook her head. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Then return my belongings to me,” Eltariel replied. “My blades. My bow. The rest.”

Thuringwethil made no response, at first. Then, she gave a wan smile, and nodded.

Thuringwethil vanished into the shadows, and Eltariel heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and a cabinet opening. Piece by piece, Thuringwethil carried over Eltariel's possessions, and laid them at her chair. Blades. Vambraces. Boots. Arrows. Cloak.

 _She found the vial,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _She's aching to ask me about it, I can tell, but she daren't broach the subject. Not yet._

When Thuringwethil was done, all of Eltariel's effects lay in a pile at her feet.

“Rest, Eltariel,” Thuringwethil said. There was a _tiredness_ to her voice, and Eltariel realized that they were both relieved that this encounter was coming to an end. “Sleep. You must allow yourself to heal. Know that I must change your bandages each day. I shall create poultices to keep diseases at bay. When I am on my errands, I shall hunt for rabbits and deer, so that you may have something to eat.”

Eltariel gave a nod. Thuringwethil nodded in turn, and then she drifted silently away.

“Maera,” Eltariel called out, then.

Thuringwethil paused. She was standing in a doorway, half-vanished in shadows. She turned, and faced Eltariel. “Hmmm?”

For the first time, Eltariel was looking at her with an unguarded expression. There was a _softness_ in her eyes, now. A _warmth._

“Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “I would be dead, if not for you. I beg your forgiveness for my cruel words, earlier.”

She was swathed in dark, but Eltariel thought she could see Thuringwethil smiling. “I am grateful that we met, Eltariel,” she said, “and it would please me to see you restored to health.”

Eltariel gave a faint smile, and then looked away.

“Oh...”

Eltariel looked up again.

Embers of wicked amusement burned in Thuringwethil's eyes. “My name is not Maera,” she said, and Eltariel's brow furrowed in confusion.

Thuringwethil told Eltariel her true name.

Eltariel's mouth parted in astonishment. All at once, countless tale that Eltariel had known since she was a child flooded back into her mind.

For a long moment, Thuringwethil peered at her guest.

“Rest, Eltariel,” she said, and then she was gone, and Eltariel was sat all alone, in the gloom.


	4. Chapter 4

“You serve the Dark Lord.”

It was late in the evening. The sun had vanished beneath the horizon, and now blackness and shadow reigned over the forest. Nothing now but the shrieking of the wind through the trees and the lonely paths. Nothing now but the passing of white mists across grass, and stones, and twigs, and leaves, and grotesque, unspeakable secrets.

Thuringwethil had risen from her bed just before sundown, and was now preparing to venture out into the darkness of the woods. She pulled on a thick black robe, and threw a heavy grey cloak about her shoulders.

_You serve the Dark Lord._

Thuringwethil paused at the doorway, and turned. Eltariel was sitting in a corner, shrouded in shadows. She was staring at Thuringwethil with hateful _accusation_ in her expression.

Icy fire leapt to life in Thuringwethil's eyes. “I serve _myself,”_ she said. Her spine straightened, and she took on much of the demeanor of a magnificent, forbidding queen. “I go where I please, I live as I wish, I answer to myself. Thus has it been for thousands of years.”

Eltariel glared at her. “Then the stories are untrue?”

Thuringwethil's eyes narrowed. _“The stories!”_ she hissed, her voice burning with scorn. “I am my own mistress, and yet, in all the tales they tell of me, I am nothing but a _servant...”_ Thuringwethil gave a _tsk_ of annoyance. Oh, how she wished the Elves and humans had simply _forgotten_ her, instead. How she wished her name had simply disappeared...

Eltariel's nostrils were flaring. Her lips were pressed firmly together. A furious, bitter indignation had bubbled up inside her.

“Sauron is...the _purest evil,”_ she said. “The...the suffering he has caused...the blood that has been shed in resisting him...and you, you were his _lackey!”_

“Mairon was the greatest mind that the world has ever known,” came Thuringethil's quick reply. “I would not have lent him my toil otherwise.”

Thuringwethil adopted a different bearing – she placed a hand on her hip, and faced Eltariel askance. All the anger disappeared from her, and she regarded Eltariel coolly, detachedly. Uncaring.

“All Mairon wished for was to raise works greater and more splendid than any that had ever been crafted before,” she said. “All Mairon desired was to create alchemies more potent and wondrous than had ever been known. And it was within his ability to accomplish such things...for that reason, I deemed him deserving of my loyalty.”

“ _Don't you understand?”_ Eltariel shot to her feet. Her fists were clenched, shaking, at her side. “Sauron is _evil!_ When, when you were in his fortresses, did it not trouble you to hear the screams from his dungeons? When he swept his armies across towns and villages, did it not bother you to see the corpses of children, families, burning on pyres? It was his greed that caused all this, his malice, and you... _you helped him!”_

Thuringwethil's lips curled up into a snarl of distaste. “Do not forget, Lady Eltariel,” she said. “You have me to thank for the fact that you are still alive. You would be dead, now, were it not for my intervention...”

“Oh, spare me your nonsense!” Eltariel said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You're keeping me _fresh,_ Thuringwethil. We both know you intend to kill me the moment your skin goes foul...”

Thuringwethil rolled her eyes, and threw up her hands in an exasperated sort of defeat.

“ _As I have already said,_ you are under my protection, Eltariel,” she said. The conversation was over. She was pulling her robes about her, now, and preparing to leave. With a loud _creak,_ Thuringwethil dragged the door open. “I have business elsewhere. You can expect me back come sunrise.”

Eltariel cocked her head. “And what manner of sordid, vile business would a monster have in a darkened forest in the dead of night?”

“Important business,” Thuringwethil said. “All of my business is important.”

The door slammed shut, and Eltariel was alone in the tower.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

_She's keeping me fresh._

_She's keeping me fresh._

Eltariel frantically dashed around the tower. She rifled through cupboards. She rummaged through shelves. She didn't know what she was looking for. She had no plan, or strategy. All she knew was that her heart was hammering away in her chest, and a cacophony of thoughts and voices was roaring in her head, and she had to do something. _She had to do something._

_She's keeping me fresh. She is letting me stay alive because she wants me beautiful and healthy. The moment she notices the slightest strange odour from her flesh, I will be lying dead on a slab, and she'll be holding a blade to a whetstone._

_I have to do something. I have to do something._

Eltariel knew that she couldn't escape the tower. She knew that if she wandered out into the Mirkwood, soon her wounds would be festering with a score of different diseases. She was weak, and sick, and the woods were full of creatures that would easily devour her.

She was trapped. She was trapped in a tower with a monster of legend, and there was nothing around for hundreds of miles but treacherous forest.

_But I have to do something._

_I have to do something._

Groaning and gasping, Eltariel dragged herself up the staircase that coiled through the tower. With each step she took, her right leg flared with pain. At last, her skin slick with sweat, she put her back against a trapdoor, and pushed up onto the roof of the tower.

The moon was partly obscured by thick grey clouds. There were a few scattered drops of rain in the wind. Eltariel limped over to the northernmost side, and leaned over the parapet. A hundred feet below, the trees of the Mirkwood were bathed in weak moonlight.

 _I can throw myself off,_ Eltariel found herself thinking. _I'm going to die anyway. I may as well decide my own end._

_I may perish in this place, but curse my family's name if I let that demon have my skin._

Eltariel peered out over the landscape, for a moment...and then a thought occurred to her.

_Hmmm...now that I think of it...it really would upset Thuringwethil to find her new suit of skin ruined, wouldn't it?_

_She is so eagerly looking forward to wearing me, I can tell. It's so obvious. Oh, it would shatter her heart into a thousand pieces if she saw my body ripped and torn, wouldn't it?_

_That wretched fiend wants nothing more than to look into her mirror and see my reflection. Hmmm...but there's fun to be had, here, isn't there? What would happen if she returns from the forest, and discovers that I have a black eye? She'll be so distraught, won't she? She'll be so distressed._

_Perhaps I should try punching myself. That would be amusing, wouldn't it?_

_I wonder what would happen if she comes home, and I've covered my face with tattoos? That wouldn't be difficult to do! There's plenty of ink and pins around! Oh, she'd explode with anger, wouldn't she? She doesn't like markings, does she? I'm a terrible artist. I should cover my face with awful little scrawlings. That would disappoint her so much._

_I should cut off my hair. Let her walk around bald, she would hate that._

_Oh! Oh!_

_Imagine! Just imagine! What would happen if Thuringwethil came back from the woods, and I've cut off one of my ears? Or I've cut off my nose? That would put her in such a foul mood!_

_I should carve myself with a knife._

_I should smash my face against a rock._

_I should drench myself in oil, and burn every inch of my skin._

Eltariel didn't notice when she started laughing. Or perhaps she did notice, and she simply didn't care.

An Elf stood upon a lonely tower in the Mirkwood forest, and she laughed, and in her laughter could be found all the qualities of rage and hatred and exhaustion and despair and terror and madness.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Day after day, Eltariel's strength returned.

The colour flowed back into her skin. The steel shone once more in her eyes.

Her injuries still troubled her greatly, however. The pain in her leg grew duller as time went by, but still she could do nothing but shamble and stagger about. It was impossible for her to move with any grace or elegance at all.

“You will have a limp for the rest of your life, Eltariel,” Thuringwethil stated, bluntly.

Eltariel shot Thuringwethil a poisonous look. “The rest of my life will not be very long, present company considered,” she said.

Thuringwethil ignored the jibe. “That Orc vermin did not deserve to land such a grievous blow upon you, and yet he did all the same,” she said. “There are no healers in all the kingdoms of Elven-kind that could mend such an injury. Not completely.”

Eltariel's face was grim. “Then I shall have to learn to fight with a weak leg, won't I?”

At this, Thuringwethil let out a dirty, lascivious laugh. “You cannot even _conceive_ of a life without battle, can you, Lady Eltariel?”

Eltariel did not respond. She simply stood, and glowered at Thuringwethil.

Thuringwethil raised her hands in invitation. “You know my nature, Eltariel,” she said. “And yet I know _nothing_ of you. All I know of you is that you are a remarkably skilled warrior, and you walk a long, lonesome path, but there is surely more.” She beckoned with her fingers in the air, as though trying to coax out little fragments of information. “Where were you born? Who trained you in the art of battle?”

Eltariel turned away, and peered at the ground, then. There was some hint of regret in her expression.

“There is nothing to say,” she said, quietly. “I am a woman of no consequence.”

“ _No consequence.”_ Thuringwethil cocked her head, and twisted her lips about, an expression she would sometimes display whenever she was contemplating some notion. “A woman of no consequence, who just so happens to possess a vial filled with the light of Earandil's star.”

Eltariel spun round, and glared at Thuringwethil. “If you dare...” she began.

Thuringwethil sputtered like a horse, then. “If I wanted to steal it, I would have taken it when you were delirious with fever,” she said, airily. She fixed her eyes on Eltariel. “How did you come to possess it?”

Eltariel turned away again, and stared determinately into the distant trees and hills. “There is nothing to be said,” she said. “I have the vial, and that is all that matters.”

Thuringwethil flashed a toothy grin. “You are quite the mystery, aren't you?” she said. “You enjoy dangling your secrets in front of me, don't you?”

“I'm not dangling anything in front of you,” Eltariel said.

“Hmmmm.” Thuringwethil linked her hands behind her back, and began pacing back and forth behind Eltariel.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

“You will have a limp for the rest of your life,” Thuringwethil said.

“I heard you the first time,” Eltariel said.

“All the healers in Lothlorien and Rivendell will not be able to restore you.”

“ _I know.”_

Back. Forth.

“And yet...”

Suddenly, Thuringwethil was directly behind Eltariel. Her lips were inches from her ear.

Thuringwethil spoke in a near-whisper. Her voice felt like silk passing over skin.

“Much of Mairon's arts and knowledge was passed to me,” she said. “If you see nothing but blood and death in your future, Eltariel...I could lend you more strength than you could possibly imagine. I could transform you into a warrior more powerful than you could ever _dream_ of.”

Eltariel stood, frozen in place. She dared not move. She dared not breathe.

She could feel Thuringwethil's breath on her skin. She could feel Thuringwethil's lips hovering at her ear, almost touching, almost touching.

Why did she not recoil? Why did she not jump away in disgust?

Eltariel mustered some strength hidden deep inside her, and turned around. Thuringwethil was standing _so close._

Eltariel could smell berries. _Thuringwethil stands in front of bushes, and pulls the berries off the branches, and puts them in her mouth,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _She does it to conceal the smell of blood._

Thuringwethil gazed at Eltariel with hungry, expectant eyes. She waited for her to speak.

“You wish to know of me?” Eltariel asked.

Thuringwethil gave a slight nod.

“Then I will tell you one thing about me.” Eltariel's expression was entirely blank. There was no hatred, no anger, no ill-intent. Nothing at all.

Thuringwethil waited.

“All my life, I have waged war against evil magic,” Eltariel said, quietly. “The darkest arts, the most wicked, unnatural blasphemies. I have sought them out, and destroyed them, and I will never, _ever_ submit to them.”

Eltariel walked away. Thuringwethil stood, alone, surrounded by the wreckage of the tower.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Each morning, Eltariel took her bow and quiver, and walked out onto the patch of forest at the foot of the watchtower.

There was a dead, skeletal tree, that had burst out of the flagstones. It was riddled with arrows.

Eltariel stood some four hundred paces away from the tree. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, placed it upon her bow, drew back the string, and let the arrow fly.

The arrow always struck _precisely_ where Eltariel meant it to land.

Well...most of the time. Her sickness had diminished her accuracy, ever so slightly. She needed to practice more.

Eltariel sent an arrow flying. Then another. Then another.

A dozen. Two dozen. Three dozen. Four.

In the shadows, Thuringwethil watched.

Thuringwethil watched as Eltariel's skin gleamed with sweat. Thuringwethil watched, and feasted her gaze upon the muscles on Eltariel's arms, glinting and shining in the sun. Thuringwethil watched, entranced by the look of _determination_ upon Eltariel's face – the focus, the obsession.

Thuringwethil watched, and an irrational, insatiable hunger began to burn within her.

Eltariel sent arrows at the tree, one after another after another after another after another.

 _I must have her,_ Thuringwethil thought.

_I must have her._

_I must have her._

_I must have her._

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

“Do you know when I first heard your name, Thuringwethil?”

“No.”

“I first heard your name when I was a little girl. Every night, my mother would tuck me into bed, and tell me stories. Sometimes, she would tell me stories about _you.”_

It had come time to replace Eltariel's dressings, again. Eltariel was sprawled across a heap of pillows, while Thuringwethil was bent over her outstretched leg, peeling away bandages. _Less pus and blood than before,_ Eltariel thought to herself. _I suppose that's something to be grateful for._

Thuringwethil wiped away at Eltariel's wound with a wet rag, cleaning away blood and filth. She raised an eyebrow at Eltariel's statement. “Did she, indeed?”

Eltariel nodded. “Well, she didn't tell me stories about _you,_ in particular,” she said. “You were never the main character. The heroine. But she told me tales of Morgoth, and Sauron, and, well...you played your part in those stories, didn't you?”

Thuringwethil did not reply to this.

Eltariel went on. “I will always remember my mother telling me the adventures of a maiden whose beauty knew no equal in all the world.” Eltariel's eyes flicked to Thuringwethil. “Luthien.”

Something passed across Thuringwethil's face, though Eltariel couldn't be sure what it was.

There was something faintly _sadistic_ in the way Eltariel spoke, now. She talked slowly, as though she wished to _savour_ each word. She said: “In one of these tales, Luthien found herself in a battle with a vampire. A terrible, enormous bat. Luthien held the vampire down, and...cut off its hide. She skinned the vampire alive, and wore its fur like a cloak. Thus disguised, she stole her way into the depths of Angband, and stole a Silmaril from the grasp of Morgoth himself.”

Thuringwethil said nothing. She tossed aside the bloodied rag, and reached for a pile of clean bandages on a nearby table.

Eltariel gave a snort, and shook her head in disbelief. “You know, Thuringwethil, I think yours is about the most terrifying story a child could possibly be told,” she said. “When I was a girl, I spent countless nights lying in bed, haunted by those damned visions that my mother gave me. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't forget. I would just lie there in the dark, thinking about that poor vampire...thrashing and writhing about on the ground, screaming and screeching, begging for mercy, her skin being peeled away...hah!”

Etariel smiled morbidly. “A mother really shouldn't fill her child's head with those sorts of thoughts,” she said. “Those sorts of images.”

Eltariel waited for Thuringwethil's reply. Thuringwethil said nothing, at first. She began wrapping the bandage around Eltariel's leg.

Then, she spoke.

“It is true that I do not have fond memories of the maiden Luthien,” she said. “Luthien, that placed this curse upon me. Luthien, that condemned me to this existence.”

Thuringwethil had to keep herself from spitting upon the floor at the Elf's memory. Instead, she gazed at Eltariel up the length of her leg, and gave a small smile. “But, at least I can take comfort in the knowledge that I give nightmares to little Elven girls.”

Eltariel gave an unenthusiastic laugh, and looked away.

Thuringwethil returned her attention to Eltariel's dressing. She looped the bandage about her leg, around and around and around.

Silence, for a short while. The fires in the chamber flickered and guttered. The wind whistled through the ruins.

Then, Thuringwethil spoke again.

“Your mother,” she said. “What...what is there to know of her?”

Eltariel shrugged. “Little,” she said. “I haven't seen her in years...”

“What is her name?”

Eltariel looked down at Thuringwethil, her face frosting over. “That is none of your concern,” she said, an edge to her voice.

Thuringwethil fastened the bandage with a tight knot. Her eyes were vacant and distant, for a moment...and then she met Eltariel's gaze.

“Osbeth.”

Eltariel's eyes widened in amazement, and she sat up. “How did you...”

“You ranted and babbled when you were sick with your derangement,” Thuringwethil said. There was a twisted _triumph_ in her expression. “You cried out for your mother, and so I asked you what her name was, and you told me.” A smile. “Osbeth.”

Eltariel sat, and stared at Thuringwethil. _What else have I told her?_

Thuringwethil settled back, and licked her lips. “And now, Eltariel,” she said, “since you love stories _so much_...I will now tell you a story.”

Thuringwethil made herself comfortable.

“This is a story about an Elf maiden named Osbeth,” Thuringwethil said. “Osbeth lived in a house all by herself, and she was _terribly_ lonely. Then, one day, there was a knock at the door. Osbeth went to see who it was, and when she opened the door, it was her daughter! Her daughter, whom she had not seen in years! Her daughter, who wandered through the world, and worried her mother so.”

“Upon seeing her little girl, Osbeth was overcome with joy. She flung her arms around her daughter's neck, and placed many kisses upon her face. She invited her inside, and set about preparing a fine meal.”

“But it wasn't her daughter, was it? The visitor wore her daughter's face, and spoke with her daughter's voice...but it was not her child. Osbeth had invited a monster into her house.”

Eltariel looked at Thuringwethil in horror.

Thuringwethil seemed to be enjoying some obscene _victory._

“Oh, have I _frightened_ you?” she said. She _tut-tutted._ “I really should have more care for the sort of stories I tell children...”

 


End file.
